


Catharsis

by Thorpe



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Hopeful angst if that's a thing, M/M, Vanjie-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 19:31:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18976924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorpe/pseuds/Thorpe
Summary: At first the perfumes he'd always worn clung to him like an abandoned lover desperate for one last embrace. The smell was familiar- something he could remember being enough once, but not anymore. It was like children's bed in his old room, and the moment he grew out of it got lost on him. He would breathe in deeply, repeat the action again and again, until ginger and musk overcame his senses, and the sting of longing for sandalwood mixed with smoke, an addition he unconsciously grew accustomed to, could be almost ignored.





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> Catharsis (κάθαρσις)- the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.
> 
> I wrote this fic trying to deal with revelations from the reunion and everything it meant to me. Working on it turned out to be quite helpful in that matter.
> 
> Please note this is only fiction, an idea I chose to explore, which is most likely completely unlike the real events because we don't know the truth. Sending hate to anyone based on your own interpretations is always the worst decision.

At first the perfumes he'd always worn clung to him like an abandoned lover desperate for one last embrace. The smell was familiar- something he could remember being enough once, but not anymore. It was like children's bed in his old room, and the moment he grew out of it got lost on him. He would breathe in deeply, repeat the action again and again, until ginger and musk overcame his senses, and the sting of longing for sandalwood mixed with smoke, an addition he unconsciously grew accustomed to, could be almost ignored. It was a detail he didn't notice until he put on fresh sheets and kept shifting from side to side, before finally realizing what was wrong. He drifted to a restless sleep on a damp pillowcase that night.  
  
Next morning he threw away the almost full bottle of washing liquid in vain hopes that getting rid of it could bring back what was lost, but it's impossible to take back time on erasure and it was a hard lesson to learn. He felt as if all of his surrounding suddenly consisted of blank spots. First was in the shape of a toothbrush next to his own one. Second was a ghost in the wardrobe, draped over the armchair and hung on a hook by the door between black leather jacket and "I love Toronto" hoodie bought in a small souvenir shop. Third used to be a yellow mug, now last bits of ceramic shards on the floor by the wall it was thrown at in rage. Fourth was frigid and unwelcoming, mocking in the dark, as he turned his back towards it and yearned for its long, muscular arms to wrap around him. Fifth was inconsistent: dates and places fading in his memory, carefully prepared catalogue of kisses, sweet nothings and butterflies’ wings fluttering missing more and more pages. Soon, the only thing left was bitter taste of fervent promises and credulous plans. And a few stray cat hairs in Riley's bed. The rest was empty space that should set him free, replace stale inevitability for fresh air and new goals, but made him feel agoraphobic instead. Out of place, like he was living in someone else's skin, someone’s fearless and more hopeful, but the eyes he met in the mirror shed the same tears he did. All alone and small. He doesn't like space, prefers closeness. Distance slowly wearing him off.  
  
There were mornings we would wake up to the blissful oblivion, eyes laced with sweet fog of dreams, a few unrushed moments of the world taking pity on him, before it crashed down with all its weight, bleeding heart buried under crushed bones. There were noons his chest would squeeze so tight it was impossible to breath, like he was drowning in helplessness. The tattoo on his neck abused with the burden of orphaned blame impossible to put on anyone. There were evenings on which a sense of déjà vu hit him at the blink of recognition of something he used to know a lifetime ago, in the land he was now banned from. He would have to hold himself then, as the nostalgia threatened to burst out of his body, and he was scared to think what would be left of him if it did. If anything would be left at all. And there were nights he would be laying in bed with eyes firmly shut, forcing his breathing to slow down and his muscles to relax without the help of soft hands that chose to stay beyond his reach. He would lay motionless, and beg for sleep to overtake him, for a few hours of salvation from the nightmare he was facing awake.  
  
But recently there has been a change. Not sudden, not groundbreaking- just slightly lighter air, or a little less thick clouds. Small step in a direction he thinks may actually be the right one. It's still difficult, still painful, still feels like too much for a single person, let alone for a man torn in half. It's still all those things, but at times, at times it's better. He breaks down, chokes on tears, and grips his phone so hard that his knuckles turns white in the bright light casted by the photos on his screen, but that's reserved only for worse days. His smile doesn't remind of a grim curve anymore, it's shy, small and less bright, but it's a start. He stops saying that ‘he's fine’, because he doesn't need to rely on lies to give him strength. He holds a hand to his chest and feels steady beating where a gaping hole with jagged edges used to be. When he goes shopping for groceries, he stops in the alcohol aisle, but doesn't reach for tequila bottle.  
  
He knows that one day he'll wake up on the other side of his bed and it won’t matter. That he’ll eventually like the shade of lipstick on Vanessa’s lips better without any other blended in. That A’Keria was right when she told him the time heals, and Nina was as well, saying happiness would come to him because he deserved it. They’re always right, so he tries to listen when they advice him to stop ignoring messages and calls when +1 615 shows on his screen and to be honest. He resigns himself to feeling fresh stitches on his heart itch and pull at the sight of him, and accepts that it may never fully go away. It’s confusing and awkward, but he guesses that, in a way, he wouldn’t want it to. He’s sure there’ll be more than one occasion he’ll get in his feelings like some people get in their heads, and regret that shortly after, because no matter how quick he’d be to take down whatever he’s posted, the Internet would be quicker, and that sucks. He stays hopeful, doing his best to convince himself that it isn’t over for him. After all, he, of all the people, should be well aware that one failure does not rule out the future. There is a happy ending waiting for him, romantic and cliché, just like he wants it. He’s still far from that, but with time he’ll get there, perhaps joined by familiar blue eyes and feet with calloused toes, perhaps by stranger’s hands carrying all the excitement of new beginnings. For now, he’s fine walking on his own.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm open to opinions, suggestions and your strong or repressed emotions both here and on tumblr at @freykitten


End file.
